


We All Bear Our Scars

by TheScandalOfFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: After John Watson's Wedding, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John Watson's Wedding, Johnlock - Freeform, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Nice Sherlock, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Platonic Sherlock/Reader, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Post-Wedding, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Reader meets Sherlock, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is clean, Sherlock is in love with John, Sherlock saves Reader, Sherlock saves me, Sherlock-centric, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Unrequited Love, unrequited johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScandalOfFandoms/pseuds/TheScandalOfFandoms
Summary: A depressed and suicidal reader runs into Sherlock, who just left from a wedding.....Would love to hear some feedback if you liked it.....TRIGGER WARNING: talk about self-harm, suicide, depression and drug abuse
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Reader, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 110





	We All Bear Our Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote in first person to avoid gendering as well as the whole "y/n" stuff.  
> This is supposed to be a comfort to all who struggle with depression and just want to escape reality a bit. I know what it's like, I know how hard it is. But trust me. Sherlock would want you to stay alive.

"Oh bloody hell" I let out a symphony of curse words as I hit the ground. "

I'm so sorry, are you alright?"

The silhouette in front of me asked, in a deep baritone voice. It was as smooth as honey, but if you really listened you could hear it quiver and shake a bit. I tried to get up on my feet again, pushing my body up which caused sharp pain to shoot through my entire left forearm. Only now I saw that the shadowy figure with curly hair had offered me a hand to help me up. However, determined to show I am very well capable of doing this on my own I ignored it. As soon as I had gotten back up on my feet, I realised who was standing in front of me. The darkness had covered the long dark coat and midnight blue scarf but once my eyes were adjusted, there was no doubt about who was standing in front of me.

"Sherlock Holmes", I said under my breath. My right arm gripping my left forearm tight to control the pain.

"And you are?" Sherlock looked down at me, his face twitching slightly.

"Not important." I gave back quickly and was ready to move on. Still breathing heavily, I was about to walk past the detective but he stood himself in front of me.

"What's wrong with your arm?" He asked, eyeing me from head to toe. I knew who he was, what he did when he looked at people, trying to deduce every possible detail he could about me. Usually I don't like being looked at, being aware of people seeing me, but I didn't mind. However, he did not look at me. He seemed to be looking past me, as if he was trying to do his usual work but his mind definitely was lost somewhere else.

"Nothing, I must have hurt it when I fell. It's alright, thank you." I replied quickly, fully aware that Sherlock Holmes would look through this lie as easily as through a window.

He didn't say anything though, just looked past me now, as if he forgot I was there. There definitely was something on his mind. But there are about a billion other things on mine as well and I needed to leave. The pain in my forearm grew stronger, I could feel it heat up, blood sinking into the fabric of my long-sleeved shirt. I dug my hand deeper around my arm, trying to cover up the blood spots. Thankfully, it was dark, so it wasn't that hard to cover up. I had gone a few steps before hearing the now familiar baritone right next to me, which made me jump a bit.

"You're right handed. You caught yourself with your right hand, not your left. Aside from that, I can smell iron, blood. You did not hurt it from the fall, which again, I am sorry about. So what is it?"

I stopped walking and once again the detective stood in front of me, looking down at me, expecting an answer.

When I didn't give him one he continued:"You must be cold-"

"I'm fine." I snapped, ready to just turn around and leave. I didn't need this. Not tonight. I just wanted to get this over with. I've put this off for way too long now. And I can't handle it any longer.

"You don't have to tell me, I already know. Sometimes it's just better to say it out loud." Sherlock said, which made me turn around. He had taken off his oh so famous coat and offered it to me. Only just now I had realised that I was shaking quite a bit. I glared down at my arm and saw that the blood had stopped pooling up in my sleeve, however the sharp pain was still a constant. Hesitantly i took his coat and quickly put it on. Sherlock had opened his mouth, ready to talk about his next deduction about me, I could tell. But I was quicker.

"The wedding wasn't much fun then, was it?"

The detective's face froze as he looked at me. Just as he was about to answer I continued.

"Best Man?" I asked and shifted slightly. The pain in my arms has decreased but was still noticeable. I clenched my teeth together and walked a few steps. Sherlock nodded slowly, but I could tell he was still wondering.

Obviously, he wasn't used to people using the same deduction skills he had on him.

"The tie is too fancy for a business meeting and fits with your pocket square. I can smell alcohol on your breath but not on your coat, therefore you weren't in a pub or bar. The colour and make of the suit also suggest wedding, they're probably chosen to fit the bride's dress, but you're here so you obviously are not the groom. Hence, wedding guest, not business man. I can see the outline of note cards in your inner chest pocket, but the dimensions aren't those of normal business cards or anything like that, so next closest thing is notes for a speech, therefore not a normal wedding guest, but the best man. The notes are for your speech."

I walked a few steps, leaving a dazzled Sherlock standing. However he caught up to me rather quickly.

"Impressive." He said quietly. There it was again, his voice was shaking but he tried so hard to hide it.

"You didn't actually believe that, did you?" I stopped walking and looked at him.

"I went by the church earlier today and saw you, doctor Watson and his bride while you were taking pictures."

The man now in front of me scoffed. "Ah, of course."

Was that disappointment on his voice?

"I'm sorry, I should not have done that." Suddenly ridden by guilt and reminded of the wounds of my arm by a sharp pain, I took of the coat and offered it back to Sherlock.

"I didn't mean to make fun of you. I'll be going now. I've got something to do."

For a short amount of time, my mind had been clear, distracted from my plans tonight. But seeing the hurt in the detective's eyes, no matter if I had caused it or something else, reminded me again. My left arm started shaking, still in pain. By now it felt cold, almost numb. Which was ironic, considering I could feel the wounds and cuts with every move I made.

"No you don't." Sherlock said and took his coat. Before I could take back my hand, he grabbed my left arm. I winced in pain, forcing myself not to cry out.

"As I suspected, then." He talked quietly now, as if suddenly aware of the situation and my state of being.

"They need to be taken care of."

This time it was me who wasn't really there, who seemed to look past him and not listen to a single word he said.

"The cuts. They need to be taken care of." he repeated.

"Fortunately they are not too deep, but they do need to be cleaned and bandaged up. Walk with me."

It didn't seem like a suggestion at this point, more like a command. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't want to follow him. But something about him made me. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed just as lost as I was at the moment.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

Maybe I wanted to know, maybe I didn't.

"There's a 24-hour chemist around the corner. We need to clean your wounds."

Sherlock walked quickly, perhaps it was the fact that he was taller than me, but I had to walk fast to keep up with him.

"I don't have any money on me." It was the only thing I could think to say.

"I know." Of course he knew, he's Sherlock Holmes. "The owner owes me a favour, don't worry about it."

I was thinking about asking about the favour but instead kept silent. "Come on in."

Sherlock said as he opened a door. I slipped past him, into a small store, barely big enough to fit five people at once. The detective had to duck down to fit in the room. I looked at him, ready to ask if he was serious because this definitely did not seem like a real chemist. An elderly woman came out before I could ask and gave Sherlock a hug.

"Oh Sherlock, what are you doing here? I thought you were clean." She sounded caring and glared into Sherlock's eyes. Now, in the artificial lightning I could see they were reddened. But it wasn't the kind of redness that was caused by drugs or alcohol. It was the kind left by a broken heart.

"Don't worry about me, I'm clean. But my friend here needs a bit of help. Do you have sterile bandages and disinfectants, maybe a bit of cream?"

The woman nodded and went into the back, through a doorway covered by a beadcurtain. It was an odd looking kind of store. Like the kind you see in movies, that's supposed to cover up something bigger.

But yet again, I decided not to question anything. I put both of my hands in the back pockets of my trousers. My fingers felt something I had almost forgotten was there. The plastic packaging of sleeping pills. As if they were poison, I hastily took my hands back out and crossed them in front of my chest. The pain of the cuts was almost gone by now. I could feel the fabric of the sleeve stick to the wound due to the blood. I could feel my breath getting quicker and my heart beating faster. The walls seemed to creep in on me. Everything around me started to spin and all I could hear was my own voice in my head. Screaming at me, telling me to get it over with and just die already. It got louder and louder, until -

"Hey." I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard the vibrating baritone of Sherlock Holmes next to me. He showed me a little paper bag.

"You are alright. Let's get some fresh air. Come on."

Again, it didn't feel like a proposal but a demand. I followed him, still shaken up and with weak knees. We must have walked for a long while in silence, because when I looked up eventually, I saw that we had left central London and were now in the suburban area somewhere. There were lots of trees and parks surrounding us, here and there the occasional house.

"Sit." Sherlock said and pointed to a park bench next to us, illuminated by a lantern. Quietly I did as I was told.

He sat down next to me and looked at me, as if he were waiting for something. His eyes glanced down to my arm. Out of reflex I pulled my arm closer to my body. I knew he wanted to see the wounds so he could take care of them, for whatever reason. But I don't want him to see them. I don't want anyone to see. I scooted around in my seat uncomfortably. Doing so made me painfully aware of the packaging in my back pocket.

"Let me see them. They need to be handled properly." He sounded soft now. Not as demanding anymore. Just understanding.

"But-"

With an exhausted sigh Sherlock took of his coat and pushed back the sleeves of his suit and shirt, revealing his bare skin. Unlike his face, his arm was nowhere near clear and smooth. It was full of scars, little dots everywhere. Scars caused by a needle.

"We all bear our scars. That is nothing to be ashamed of."

This time he didn't even try to hide the quivering in his voice as he rolled his sleeve back down. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to react.

"I.. I'm sorry." My voice was croaky, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Why do you people always think you need to apologize for something that you cannot possibly have caused." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

I found it funny how he used the phrase "you people". As if he wasn't one of us. As if he wasn't ordinary. But then again... He wasn't ordinary at all, was he?

I slowly reached out with me arm and began to roll the sleeve up. The dried blood had practically glued the fabric onto my skin and I knew that tearing it off would also open the wounds again. I gasped in pain as I ripped the sleeve back and looked at the detective. I expected a lecture on why I shouldn't hurt myself. I expected to be told how irrational and stupid I had been. I expected to be humiliated and belittled.

But I wasn't.

Instead, Sherlock just look at me and slowly took my arm into his hand, the other one reaching for the disinfectant spray and a clean cloth to wash way the dried blood.

"This is gonna hurt just a bit, okay? But don't look. It will only hurt more if you look. Just look at me. Look at me. You are going to be alright."

He continued to talk while I was looking at him. I bit on my lower lip, trying to fight back the tears that had forced themselves into my eyes from the unbearable pain. I gasped loudly, profanities slipping my mouth. Sherlock told me random facts about a case he was working on, I presumed. I didn't give him my full attention. How can I when there's still this monster inside of me, lurking, wanting me to get all of this over with?

"Why did you leave the wedding early?"

I suddenly burst out without really meaning to. "I-I am sorry this is none of my business." I immediately felt bad and looked at the ground. Sherlock, who was now wrapping up my arm with a bandage, hesitated shortly, almost freezing in place it would seem.

"You must know enough about me from the media to realize I am not much of a party person."

He said quietly as he finished wrapping me up.

"You are all done here for now. You should have a real doctor take a look at it, though. In one or two days, to see how it's healing."

I rolled the bloodied sleeve back over my forearm and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Well, everything I thought I knew about you, Mr. Holmes, you have proven wrong tonight." I replied just as quietly, with barely more than a whisper.

For a few more minutes we sat in silence. Until Sherlock broke that silence.

"I am his best friend." I looked at him, confused. "John. John Watson. I am his best friend." he repeated again, staring blankly in front of him down on the ground.

"Well I... I know... Kind of figured." I replied, not knowing exactly what to say.

"I didn't."

Sherlock's voice got smaller. "I have never been anyone's best friend... Or friend, for that matter."

Again, I was unsure of what to say and stayed quiet for a while before mumbling.

"I've ever been someone's best friend either... I think."

"Maybe you are and just don't know it yet." I looked at Sherlock. He was leaning back on the bench, his hands folded together in front of his face as if he was thinking.

"Why did you leave the wedding then.... You're his best friend, best man... Why leave early?"

I ask just once more, regretting it immediately because silence fell once again, covering us like the darkness outside the latern's light.

"Because John Watson means the world to me. And he deserves better than a sociopath being there on the most important day of his life."

You could barely recognize his voice anymore. It was so soft, so true and yet so full of hurt. I couldn't stop looking at him. And the more I looked, the more hurt I saw. The way his eyebrows wrinkled, his fingertips were shaking, his hair fell into his face... The way his eyes reflected the light just a bit too much, ironically glossy and matte at the same time. Glossy from held back tears, matte from pain and heartache.

"You love him, don't you?"

I asked softly and quietly, though it was more of a statement than a question. I didn't get an answer. I didn't expect one. And to be honest, I didn't need one.

So we just sat there. Next to each other in the light of the lantern, with nothing more than the sound of the occasional traffic and the nightlife of insects to keep us entertained.

"What were you planning on doing tonight?" Sherlock then asks out of the blue, ripping me out of my own thoughts.

I looked over at him, he was still in the same thoughtful positon as before, but looking back at me.

The look in his eyes seemed to say 'I won't tell anyone about your secret, if you won't tell anyone about mine.'

"You know what. You're Sherlock Holmes, you probably knew that I wanted to take my own life two seconds after running me down."

"Yes, but why. I would like to know why."

"Because I am no one."

"You're not no one, obviously. I'm talking to you which makes it quite clear that you're not no one."

I scoffed.

"Trust me I am. No one cares. No one would care if I were gone. No one would even notice."

"Lots of people would notice. But you wouldn't be there to see it. So why 'take your own life'?"

I kept quiet.

"It's funny, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Taking your own life."

Now he got up on his feet and stood in front of me, pacing up and down, but never leaving the light of the lantern.

"It's a funny expression. Once you've taken it, it's not you who will miss it. Your death is something that happens to everybody else." He paused and stood still in front of me, looking down at me.

"Your life is not your own. Don't throw it away. Trust me, I know what it's like. I know wh-"

"You don't know shit."

I snapped, fighting back tears.

"You didn't commit suicide, you bloody faked it." I gritted my teeth angrily and stood up to avoid being looked down on.

"Which is why-," Sherlock's voice has gotten louder "-I know what it does to the people you care about." He looked at me.

"The people who care about you."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

"No one cares about me. Look at me. I have been out for 12 hours without a phone and no one is looking for me."

"Someone will. Someone does. Believe me, someone always cares. Years ago I would have agreed with you but then I met John. My best friend. And he made me realize that everyone, no matter what, deserves to be cared for. Trust me. People care about you. Sometimes they just don't say it."

I could tell that by now, it wasn't just me he was trying to convince, but himself too. He stood in front of me with red eyes, hurt and broken and yet he cared for me. He took care of my wounds when no one else would notice. I felt seen. In a warm and calm way, not the uncomfortable and paranoid way. I didn't know what to say. I just fell back onto the bench and started sobbing. This didn't seem to be the reaction Sherlock was hoping for so he just stood there helpless for a few seconds before sitting down next to me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Give them to me. Please." He said quietly.

His deep voice comforted me and yet still made me sob. I slowly reached into my back pocket and got the tablet packaging out, handing it to him with shaking fingers. After a few more moments of quiet, the detective cleared his throat and you looked up at him. You could see the glossy trail a tear had left behind on his cheek. Quickly he wiped it away.

"You would not have died tonight." I looked at him with a question mark on my face.

"Even if you had taken all of these pills. The dosage is enough to make you vomit for a bit and have a sound sleep, but you would not have died."

I stayed quiet, not knowing what to say.

"It is getting rather late now. We should get you home. Where to?"

I told him the address of my flat, which I shared with someone. A friend, maybe?

Sherlock stood up and offered me his hand to help me get up. This time I took it, realising that I am rather weak on my legs by now, maybe even a bit tired. He linked his arm with mine, perhaps to make sure I wouldn't stumble, maybe because he needed to make sure he didn't fall either. And so we walked in silence, slowly back to my flat.

After what felt like an eternity, a rather good one I might add, we had reached my address.

"Ah bollocks, I forgot my keys."

I cursed as we stood in front of the door.

"You didn't forget them, you just had no intention of ever needing them again" Sherlock said.

I gave him a tired smile as I rang the doorbell, hoping my flatmate would still be awake. After hardly a few seconds the door opened and my flatmate stood in front of me, as pale as a ghost.

"Oh thank God you're okay." they whispered and hugged me tightly without a warning.

"You were gone and didn't take your phone with you, I thought you'd been kidnapped or something, bloody hell don't do that to me."

"Yes, I'm... I'm sorry I went for a walk and lost track of time." I apologized quietly as they let go of me.

"Is... Is that Sherlock bloody Holmes?" My flatmate look at Sherlock doubtfully.

"Yes. Long story. Hey um... Can you give me a second, I'll be right in. Just leave the door open. Thank you." I said quietly and tried to turn them away from Sherlock, towards our flat.

"Oh you've got to tell me what the hell happened... Bloody Sherlock Holmes, I can't believe it...." They went back upstairs, leaving the door open for me later.

I turned to Sherlock who had a smug grin on his face.

"I told you: there's always someone who cares."

Without thinking about anything else, I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Thank you so much for...everything." I let go of him.

"Please. Call me Sherlock. And do see a doctor in a few days, yes?" he said.

"I know the best one in London." He said and handed me a card.

Dr. J. Watson

221b Baker Street

I gave him a warm smile.

"Sherlock.... I won't tell anyone, I promise but please don't push yourself away from him because of that. He needs you just as much as you need him, trust me. From what I've heard- from what I've seen today... I'm right."

Sherlock didn't say anything but I knew he understood. Or rather I hoped.

"Goodbye", he said, turning around and slowly disappearing into the night.

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Thank you." I whispered quietly while looking at my bandaged arm,in disbelief of what had happened tonight.

Sherlock Homes had saved my life.

I was unaware that I had just well saved Sherlock's night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! I gave the flatmate gender neutral pronouns to give you the decision, since different people have different preferences. I hope that's okay.  
> I hope that you could enjoy yourself for a while and that I got as close as possible to Sherlock's character. I wrote this as an escape hatch for myself and thought that maybe someone else could need one too. Hopefully this could give you the momentary escape you longed for.  
> And if you're just here for fun and games, yay. Hope you liked it.  
> Thank you for reading and stay alive!


End file.
